The teacup rattled faintly against the saucer.
Claire Holloway didn't flinch. Her hands were still, steady. She stared straight ahead, at the untouched cup, steam curling upward like a ghost trying to rise.
Across from her sat Detective Rowan Dyer, his notebook closed but his eyes watchful. He had a face like sandpaper—worn and rough, as though the world had scraped too many truths into him.
"I know this is difficult," he said.
She nodded once.
"Do you want to see her?"
"No." The answer came too fast, too flat.
Rowan paused. "Why not?"
Claire's lips barely moved. "Because I saw her every day for seventeen years. That's enough."
The silence stretched between them like an open wound.
"She was a good kid," Rowan offered gently.
"She was," Claire agreed, finally reaching for the tea. She took a sip. It burned her tongue, but she didn't react.
"Was she seeing anyone?" Rowan asked. "Anyone who might've had reason to—"
"No." Claire set the cup down, not breaking eye contact. "No boyfriends. No drama. No drugs. She was ordinary. Beautifully, painfully ordinary."
"I'll still need to speak with her friends."
Claire nodded again. Her gaze drifted toward the stairs. Lila's room was up there. She hadn't gone in yet. Couldn't. Not yet. Not until it was time.
"You know," she said quietly, "when she was little, she used to line her dolls up along the edge of the bed like they were standing watch. She said they kept the nightmares out."
Rowan said nothing.
"She didn't know the real nightmares are always inside the house," Claire whispered.
He furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"
Claire blinked slowly. The moment passed. "Nothing."
He made a note anyway.
That night, the Holloway house was silent. No crying. No television. No movement. Just the slow tick of the grandfather clock downstairs.
Claire sat at the edge of her bed, still in the same clothes. Her makeup had smudged, but she hadn't washed her face. Her hands were clasped in her lap. She looked like a widow from a portrait.
Then, she stood.
She crossed the room to the closet, reached for a panel at the back, and slid it open.
A second room revealed itself. Narrow. Dustless. Candlelit.
Inside: shelves of leather-bound journals, a locked chest, and a wall covered in newspaper clippings. Faces of children, teenagers. All victims. All unsolved.
Lila's picture was at the center. A gold pin through the heart.
Claire touched the photo. Her fingers trembled—not with grief.
But purpose.
She removed a key from her necklace and opened the chest.
Inside, wrapped in velvet, was a mask. Porcelain white. Smooth. Featureless.
Claire pressed it to her face, exhaled slowly, and whispered:
"She is accepted."
Elsewhere, in the dark of a small rented apartment, Mara Quinn flipped through police reports lit only by her desk lamp. A true-crime blogger and small-time journalist with more curiosity than self-preservation, Mara was already deep into her latest obsession: the girl under the sycamore tree.
She didn't believe in coincidence.
And something about this case felt… wrong.
Not random.
Not personal.
Patterned.
She didn't know it yet, but she was already being watched.